Solitary: 1

There was a fuzzy, muffled sound flashing far away. The intermittent squawking pursued Josh, despite his evasion. The grating cry menaced him. It was his alarm. He turned to confront it. He tugged at his dreary body like a puppeteer. The air was cold. His arm was chilled during its escape from the blankets. He felt for the switch, clicked it, and reeled his arm back in. The crease under his pillow radiated heat. He tried blinking. Another day began. A number of relevant thoughts appeared like soldiers reporting for duty. Lunch. I need to make lunch this morning. Proofreading day today. He dismissed the bedding. It might snow. Josh hesitantly succumbed to necessity and stood up.

His job had a way of tyrannizing his day up until washing his dinner plate and silverware. He prepared himself due to his job, drove to the city due to his job, worked for the job-required time, drove from the city due to his job, and ate to recover from the occupational expenditures of energy (which were more emotional/spiritual than physical).

To begin, Josh addressed the mess he made. He bent and pulled his sheets taught, then his blanket, then his comforter. He stacked one white damask pillow in front of the other. He ran his hand across the top of the comforter and completed the daily ritual about which his father had boasted. (“Not a day went by where I didn’t make my bed. Sick, healthy, happy, or sad.”) He thought this was a trivial accomplishment, although he felt more at ease having done it. He moved on.

Josh did not slink across the carpet as tired people are wont to do. He felt old whenever he heard himself scrape the ground. The sound of shuffling reminded him of his ever-lost and pacing grandpa. He did not want to be like his grandpa. Josh was averse to aging. He consciously lifted and lowered his feet as if he was walking mid-day to convince himself he was entirely awake and alive.

In normal circumstances, he functioned within a regimented routine. The regime and its regularity were secondary to unconscious pacing (i.e., “autopilot”) rather than intentional choosing. The precision was a brute consequence of how long it unreflectively took him to eat, dress, and tend to matters of personal hygiene. 17-18 minutes were needed to pour and eat a bowl of cereal (e.g., frosted shredded wheat). 10-11 minutes were needed to pick out and put on an outfit (e.g. oxfords, khakis, and tan derbies). One-two minutes were needed to tie his tie (one being needed for the four-in-hand and two being needed for the half-or-full Windsor, dictated by flair of the collar). Four-six minutes were needed to mouth-wash, teeth-brush, and shave. Two minutes were needed to find a jacket and, in the winter, pick out a scarf. His alarm sounded at 7:01 AM and he was out of the door by 7:35-7:40AM. A 12-14 minute commute, a two minute walk from the lot to the building, and one minute elevator ride resulted in Josh being ready to work comfortably, but not excessively, before 8:00 AM. That the periods of time were so consistent at once impressed him (because he functioned like a clock and was, therefore, superhuman) and depressed him (because he functioned like a clock and was, therefore, subhuman).

The evening routine was less exact. Since the inauguration of his adulthood, workweek evenings involved tie loosening, jacket hanging, and dinner making. After returning the kitchen to pre-meal normalcy, Josh was entirely free (up until, of course, he needed to prepare to sleep so that he would not be tired the following day at work). This post-dinner time comprised of a mixture of movie watching, internet perusing, and, with increasing frequency, reading. Randomness was most regularly manifested in his lunch preparation. Whenever Josh felt “up to it,” he would make a sandwich for the next day. Last night, thanks in large part to a draining black and white foreign film, Josh went to bed without preparing a lunch.

This morning, in a dreamy stupor of sleepiness, he made his sandwich. Josh artfully applied a glob of peanut butter to the bread as a baker spreads icing. He wagged the knife side-to-side. When finished, the smooth, gently lustrous surface gleamed as though the topping was sprayed on rather than spread. The jelly-coated slice glistened with blotches of fruit flesh. He licked the knife, missed summertime berries, and rinsed it under the kitchen faucet. Josh placed the jellied-slice on top of the peanut-buttered slice with precision and slid it into a plastic bag. He inserted it and a mealy apple into his lunch bag, abutting the water bottle in a way that would not compress the delicate, vulnerable bread.

After this delay, Josh initiated the standard morning sequence. Despite chewing faster and fussing less with his tie, he could not accelerate his breakfast consumption to sufficiently compensate for his lunch-making. He locked the deadbolt on his door at 7:44 AM.

The car was dreadfully cold. The seats containing frozen foam were firmer than normal. Josh donned his sunglasses and adjusted the driver’s side visor. As his commute began, the sun hovered slightly above the horizon like a lion hunched low on the plain. Atmospheric pollution draped over the city like wax paper and tinted the sky dreamsicle. The distant buildings looked to be made of charcoal.

Driving east along the highway on a December morning was painful. A depressed section of highway with a nearly parallel stretch of road overhead felt ominous. Due to impractical geography at the time of construction, the road bent slightly to the south and back to the north, inadvertently mitigating the due-west confrontation. Abandoned, rusting buildings flanked the drivers. By the time his hungry pupils expanded in the shadows, he was nearly out of the elongated rut. Cresting the hill, the sun impaled his vision. “Erg.” The sight was not white and calm like something heavenly but yellow and accusatory like a police officer’s flashlight. He could no more look ahead than breath underwater. Everything in him resisted. It was too bright to think. At these moments, Josh focused his vision on the three foot area of pavement in front of his hood. The sun seemed to tolerate downcast eyes of deference. This is how I’ll die, running into some stalled vehicle. How is anyone else seeing? Eventually the angles and the surrounding structures were such that Josh could see again. He flicked his turn indicator, exited, and navigated the grid of numbered streets. He backed into a parking space and strode as quickly as dignity would allow into his office building.

Josh punched his timecard at 8:03. Mr. Calloway, the official assistant manager and unofficial office Bad Cop, glared as he passed. His blond mustachioed face twitched in disapproval. There’s going to be an email.